The Valley of Your Heart
by Reichenfeels
Summary: Series of one-shots and drabbles of Sherlock and John's lives both pre and post-canon. Co-written with Sherlockian-spy. Rating for angst, possibly future slashy stuff.
1. Brick by Brick

**A/N #1: Hullo my dears, I thought I'd pop in and give a little bit of context here. This fic is what will become a series of one-shots and drabbles set both pre and post canon. I am co-writing with my dear friend Starry (her tumblr is sherlockian-spy), we're trading off writing chapters and occasionally popping in and changing things here and there. This first chapter is Starry's, the next is mine. -xo**

**A/N #2: Hey! Starry here. Hope you enjoy my childhood!Sherly fic; I didn't expect it to take the turn it did, but I'm quite pleased with it. -Starry**

Brick by Brick

It is generally assumed that the youngest child is the "baby", the favorite, the pet. It's a fair assumption in most families.

He was the youngest, so everyone assumed he was pampered and spoilt. Quite the opposite was true; Sherlock Holmes was often left to his own devices as a small child. While his parents bragged on about how intelligent his older brother was, and how he would do so well taking over his father's place in the British government, their younger son fell by the wayside. The only one who seemed to notice him was his brother Mycroft.

When Sherlock was five and Mycroft was twelve, their mother died. After her death, their father pushed Mycroft, and ignored Sherlock, even more. One night, when both boys were at home, Sherlock had crept down the hall on silent feet, and snuck into his older brother's room. This became common practice after a few weeks, Sherlock would visit his brother's room, and the two brothers would talk, or sometimes Mycroft would tell his younger brother stories.

One night, after Mycroft and the Older Holmes had a row about Sherlock being in boarding school (Mr. Holmes wanting to send him away and Mycroft arguing that he should stay; Mycroft lost), Sherlock crawled into Mycroft's bed and didn't speak. Eventually, Mycroft thought maybe he wasn't going to at all and had fallen asleep. This thought was proved wrong by a very small voice whispering, "Why does Daddy want me to go away?"

Looking down at his younger brother, Mycroft didn't know what to say. To be honest, even he didn't know why their father was so adamant about Sherlock being sent away. He was also angry, but he was only twelve, he wasn't Father. He didn't know what to say to an upset five year old. Not speaking, he just wrapped his little brother in a hug and let him cry.

The boarding school was as bad as Sherlock had feared it would be. He was smaller than most of the other kids, and he was smarter. This made him an easy target for bullies. In the end the bullies only made him smarter; they taught him how to observe, and how to process the data he got from his observations.

He'd been at the school for six years now. He wasn't a scared little boy who cried for his big brother anymore. He was an anti-social preteen with an eidetic memory. He got top marks and did his best to avoid people. Even the other social outcasts didn't accept him; they thought he was too weird. He'd begun cataloguing information on people differently, and he could tell more about them.

His brain became far more organized. Before it had just been a simple bookcase, but it was slowly expanding, until he decided to make it into a palace. There were rooms and rooms of unused space, while things he thought were unimportant were evicted. This was mainly pointless trivia about people. He didn't care about what kind of biscuits his dorm mates liked, or who was shagging who; which, considering he attended an all-male boarding school, amused Sherlock.

Besides becoming reclusive and anti-social, Sherlock also began to cultivate an aversion to any physical contact. At school being touched equaled something painful- whether it be a bully's fist or the teacher's ruler. This carried over onto any kind of contact; Such as, when a boy a year younger than Sherlock, brushed up against him in the hallway, he couldn't suppress the shudder of revulsion he felt.

Five years after the initial construction of his mind palace, Sherlock made what he considered to be a friend. The young Carl Powers. Sherlock attended his swim meets and practices and in return, Carl provided semi-intelligent company. Carl Powers became such a fixture in Sherlock's life that he got his own room in Sherlock's mind palace. Sherlock knew his favourite colour was somewhere between royal and navy blue (TARDIS blue the boy called it), he knew his favourite foods, books, shows on telly, how much he loved his new trainers (that his mum insisted on writing his name in), how he hated his eczema, and his love of swimming. He knew his odd quirks, how to tell if he was lying, and whether he was shy or embarrassed. He knew that Carl had some admirer at another school. He was also the first person that Carl came out to as being homosexual, not that it mattered to Sherlock.

After a year people thought that the two were dating. After a year and a half, the rumors about them were made true. Sherlock and Carl had hesitantly kissed in the empty locker room after one of Carl's swim practices. Well, Carl had kissed Sherlock, who didn't push him away. Which seemed to be enough for the boy, and Sherlock felt that when his new boyfriend touched his hand or wrapped his arm around him, he didn't feel the same revulsion. He didn't particularly enjoy the contact but it didn't make his skin crawl.

When they'd been together for three months is when they first became intimate. Both of them were awkward and inexperienced, which made it slightly embarrassing, but not bad. In fact, Sherlock found there was one form of contact he didn't mind. That he even enjoyed, and oh did it make his mind clearer. Ignoring dorm rules, they began sharing a bed secretly. Slipping off in the early morning when the other boys were asleep, and returning to their own rooms. In the three months they were together, they never got caught.

The last day they saw each other Carl was heading off to a swim meet. It was an important one, nationals. Sherlock would normally have accompanied him but his father was insisting on seeing him that day. So with a fond smile and a quick kiss, the two said their goodbyes. Making plans to meet after hours.

Sherlock would always remember the next few days in vivid clarity that would always shock him. Carl had a seizure in the pool and drowned. His parents came to the school to collect his things, both the things he'd left there and what the hospital had returned. Everything was there, except his shoes. Sherlock immediately recognized this as odd and tried to get people to listen. All he got was a scolding and a box to his ears, people telling him at every turn that he was causing Carl's parents pain. That Carl had a fit in the water and what did it matter where his shoes were, some kid had probably knicked them.

It was the death of his first boyfriend that made Sherlock realize he wanted to solve crimes. Not on the police force, he wouldn't be able to handle it. That meant he needed to become more clever.

**Please leave us reviews!**


	2. Heart of Gold

**Hello! Reichenfeels here! Gonna post my first chapter in this series, a Soldier!John drabble! If any of you follow me on tumblr you'll know I've got an army!John kink that can't be tamed. So I hope you enjoy! Also, despite the fact that I know quite a bit about the military here in the states (ex-army brat), I know very little about the Royal Army of Britain. I'm doing research, but don't shoot me okay? -xo**

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><p><span>Heart of Gold<span>

John Watson had many expectations placed on him, and very few of himself. He was both youngest sibling and only son, a heavy burden to place on a ten year old boy who had just lost his father to a drunk-driving accident. He was level-headed and emotionally mature; he knew what to say to his mother when the young boy would walk into the kitchen and find her crying over a pot of tea. He knew when to not bother. He took care of his family, quietly taking over responsibility when it seemed his mother could no longer bear the weight of her work. At thirteen, he got a job bagging groceries at the local shop, sneaking his earnings into his mother's wallet and milk into the fridge. When his sister dropped out of high school and started getting into trouble, he patiently took care of her, too. After a few years, Mrs. Watson came out of her cloud of depression and began working as a nurse again. John went through high school and got decent marks. He played football for his school.

John Watson was meant to be a doctor. With his unending patience and his reserved, quiet, kind personality, the job seemed perfect for him. He liked helping people. He wasn't squeamish or afraid of needles or knives. His mother wanted him to be a surgeon, make large sums of money and buy her a nice house in the countryside. When Harriet developed her drinking problem, John refused to accept his mother's money for college tuition, demanding she use it to pay for rehabilitation for his sister. He worked three jobs to go to Bart's, where he quickly learned that he was not the kind of man to become a surgeon at all. He liked working with people on a personal level, not operating over an unconscious body. That and he quickly became bored with the lack of physicality involved. He hated sitting still and leading a boring, mundane life.

It was June when he made the decision. He had only graduated the week before, but already it was becoming apparent that he would not get a job any time soon. His marks in school were decent but not high enough to get him into any sort of specialty program. The future was looking increasingly bleak, and he had decided to go for a walk round London, travelling a road near Bart's he'd never been down before. That's when he passed it. The recruiting office. He walked past three times, glancing nervously at the posters in the window, before finally gathering the courage to enter. He talked for nearly an hour to a recruiter, asking every single question that he had, making sure he completely understood the risks and rewards, before leaving the office with a thick packet of pamphlets and paperwork in his hands. He was halfway home when he realized he already knew he'd do it, but he knew he needed to give his mother fair warning, give her the opportunity to attempt to talk him out of it. Maybe she'd hate him. Maybe that'd be best. It's easier to mourn someone you resent than someone you love.

Not that he had any intention of dying. But John Watson was brave and he wasn't an idiot. He knew people go to wars and not everyone returns. Somehow that risk seemed to make more sense than staying in London with a mediocre degree scrounging for work. Seemed exciting, actually. He'd rather not know if he was going to be alive next year than not know how he was going to pay for next year. He was a simple young man. "Life and death" meant much more to him than "well-fed or broke". So he went home and made his mother tea and sat her down at the table. He didn't waste any time about it; there was no point. At first she stared blankly at him, confused, and then laughed at his ridiculousness. And when that didn't change John's mind, she began to cry, asking how he could possibly leave her alone. When John Watson stared blankly back at her, not bothering to comfort his mother, she became angry. She yelled at him about how he was throwing away his degree, how he was throwing his entire life away, really. She yelled about how stupid he was being and asked what he planned to accomplish by getting shot or blown up. He didn't yell back. John wasn't the yelling type, not then anyway. He was still quiet, still kind, and still non-confrontational.

Three days later he returned to the office with his paperwork in hand. He was passed along like a doll to various people who checked his physical health, his blood, his heart, made sure he wasn't taking drugs or steroids. They checked his eyesight and his ears and nearly every other possible act his body could perform before stamping his paperwork with a great big thumbs-up and John Watson was given his date and location for training.

Saying goodbye was easier than John would have ever believed. His mother cried and he embraced her silently, knowing there was nothing he could say. Harriet hugged him briefly, looking solemn but understanding. It wasn't her place to tell her brother what was and wasn't acceptable, not anymore. "I love you, mum." John said quietly, looking into the dark blue eyes that were so similar to his own before grabbing his bag of few belongings allowed him and boarding the bus with the others.

His fellow recruits were made up of mostly rowdy eighteen-year-olds, fresh out of high school and bubbling over with youthful fantasies of war and glory. John sat in the front of the bus near their commanding officer, staring out of the window as they left the city behind and made the hour-long trip to Bassingbourn training center. He didn't know what he had expected upon arriving, but it certainly wasn't what he was greeted by. From the minute they stepped off of the bus they were being screamed at, rushing from one station to another as they were given their training uniform and discarded their bags. The youngsters quickly sobered up, looking a bit like frightened livestock waiting for the slaughter. John couldn't help but find that only the slightest bit amusing. Once they were changed, the actual work began, starting with the Oath.

"I, John Watson, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs**, **and successors, and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, her heirs and successors in person, crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, her heirs and successors and of the generals and officers set over me"

He had to admit it felt extremely good to say the words, to be officially sworn in as a soldier. From there they were forced to run, jump, climb, crawl, and push themselves harder than what John believed he was capable of. But he did it, with minimal breakdowns that only took place in his bunk late at night. His original group of men dwindled in numbers over the passing days as those who couldn't handle it angrily scoffed in the middle of a session, gathered their belongings, and left. But John remained, quickly adapting to the high-intensity lifestyle. His body became stronger, his mind sharper, his voice louder. He learned that everything he had to say better be worth screaming, sometimes multiple times just for the amusement of his superiors. By the end of physical training John could outrun his companions, climb like a squirrel, and shoot a grape from 100 yards.

The queue to receive deployment information was ridiculously long, but John was too anxious to feel bored during the length of it. His body was sore, almost comfortably so, and there was a summer breeze pulling through the camp. Finally he entered the captain's office, saluting the man until he was instructed to sit down in the chair opposite his commander, his back straight as a board and not quite touching the back of the chair.

"Private Watson, is it?" he glanced at the file in front of him.

"Yes, sir."

"I see here you've got a medical degree from St. Bart's."

"Yes, sir."

"What made you join the service, for God's sake?" He leaned back in his chair, looking amused.

"It just seemed like the best option, sir." John replied calmly, knowing there would be no better answer than that.

The captain nodded, "Ever consider being medic trained?"

"I have, sir."

"But…"

"I didn't believe I'd get it until I had a few years of service completed, sir." John shifted, hardly allowing himself to hope. The one thing he wanted most during his time in the army was a chance to be an army medic, maybe even an army doctor one day.

"Well, my dear boy, your superiors seemed extremely impressed with your physicality and mental strengths. You've been given the highest recommendations here…" he flipped through a few more of his papers, reading his scores from the various mock-missions and training exercises they were put through. "I'm willing to promote you to corporal right now and attach you to the next medical team to Afghanistan. Unless you want to go infantry…." He glanced up at John's shocked expression.

"N-no, sir!" John choked, trying to bite back his excitement. The captain grinned at him, obviously pleased with his enthusiasm.

"Very well, corporal. You can collect your equipment and new rank. Congratulations." He handed him the paper, and John stood, saluting him before taking it and nearly running out of the office and out into the warm sun.

John didn't bother returning to London before deployment. He knew it would only make him leaving harder on his mother. He called her that night, starting with the news of his promotion and ending with news of his one-year tour of Afghanistan. She cried, of course, and John did his best to comfort her, giving her an address which she could send letters to. When he mentioned that this was the first step toward becoming an army doctor, she sobered up a little, but it was hardly a comfort to John. He'd been taking care of his mother for the past twelve years; leaving made him feel a slight bit guilty.

The week passed quickly, and it felt like only hours later that John was checking in to his flight at Heathrow, his uniform gaining him appreciative looks from men and women alike. Children stared at him as if he was some sort of action figure come to life. He couldn't help but not feel the tiniest bit good about those looks, but once his flight made its decent into Afghanistan, his bravado had completely worn off. He disembarked from the civilian plane and was immediately taken at the gate into the burning-hot outdoors and toward a military craft. He gave his name to the sergeant in charge, a dark-skinned man who seemed more than a little irked to be playing transportation to a bunch of new recruits.

Once he and the dozen or so other soldiers also just arrived from various parts of the world were settled into their seats in the aircraft, the sergeant entered and glanced at the clipboard in his hands, "Right. You lot are all headed to Bastion. Consider yourselves lucky. If the plane gets shot at and we're going down, there are parachute packs under your seats. Try not to annoy the hell out of me." And with that he turned on his heels and took his seat on the far side of the cabin, and John swallowed hard. He realized his hand was shaking slightly, terrified now that he was actually in a war zone.

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><p>Bastion base was huge, like a small city of soldiers teeming under the burning desert sun. John was quickly introduced to his team of medics, all of them battle-tested and on their second or third tours. They teased John for being the baby among their group, but he quickly fell into the efficient, companionable methods of working.<p>

No amount of joking could have prepared him for the first patient he was present to work on, though. It was a young man, not much older than he was, who had been unfortunate enough to be the only major injury in a landmine incident, his right leg almost completely blown off, shards of material lodging themselves everywhere else on his body. John nearly fainted with the sheer amount of _blood_, the sticky liquid seeming to come out of every pore of the poor man's body. They gave him drugs to knock him out, amputated his leg, and John was given the painstaking task of suturing the deep cuts left after another on his team, a dark-haired Asian woman of the name Dang, removed with nimble, knowing hands. It took less than an hour, but by the end of it John felt weak and tired.

That afternoon, John entered the mess hall and was immediately flagged by the medical team, who waved him over. He felt a small bit like he was in school again, being asked to sit by the popular kids, but he joined them and was clapped on the back, "First patient today, eh Watson?" asked one of the more experienced men on the team.

"It gets easier, trust me." Added another, taking a large forkful of food into his mouth.

"I was afraid you were going to pass out on me," said the Dang girl. She smiled kindly at him, and he laughed back shakily.

"Just a bit more than textbook pictures at St. Bart's, that's all." John said quietly, and they all had a laugh at that one. Yes, it certainly was different, but in retrospect John realized he actually _enjoyed _it, enjoyed the rush of adrenaline and the yelling of clear instructions, no reserve when it comes to swearing or social conventions. Theirs was a well-oiled machine and the efficiency and intensity of it all was enough to make John addicted.

The work was hard, the hours varied, his team often being woken up in the middle of the night to help victims of night bombings or people shot on special missions. John quickly adapted to the sound of firing guns, the constant din of noise during the day and the silent desert nights. It was his time off-base that he most enjoyed, because it is there that he was able to do the most good. In makeshift tents along golden mountains he would feel most at home, his soon elevated rank allowing him to take over control in most situations, barking out orders to inferiors, saving countless lives and limbs. He had only lost one man on the table, an 18-year old on his first tour. Car bombing. There wasn't much of him to be brought to them in the first place, but John tried his hardest to keep the poor kid alive. That night was one of the hardest to sleep through.

John Watson was dedicated, quietly so. He was never heard complaining and very rarely showed any emotion other than fierce determination and stoic pride in himself and his team. It was May when he received the news: his one-year tour had been extended. He didn't have to return to the rainy metropolis of London. He could have danced for joy.

The letters came less frequently as the months passed, but in a way John was happy about that. It meant his family was missing him less. Soon his mother stopped sending letters all together, and when John took the time to mention the fact in one of his own sloppily-written notes, he was surprised to receive a reply from his sister.

_Johnny, _

_ Sorry I haven't had much time to write. Things have been busy here. I finished rehab and I'm going on four weeks sober. It doesn't sound like much but it's something. Me and Clara have gotten pretty serious. You remember her, don't you? She and I met in school. Anyway we've been seeing each other a lot, and I asked her to marry me. She said yes. I hope you can make it to the ceremony, but I know you're busy making the world a better place and such. If that's what war does, anyway._

_ Mum's not too well. She quit her job, back in therapy for depression. Christ, Johnny, you'd think dad died all over again. Taking meds and everything. I worry about her, haven't had the heart to tell her you're staying for another year. She's not going to take it well at all. Just be safe and come back to us in one piece, okay?_

_ Harry_

John frowned, running his rough hands over the paper that shone too brightly in the desert sun. He knew he wasn't ready to return to England, and yet he felt guilty for causing his mother pain. Part of him was angry, though. Angry she would let herself spiral so quickly. He was 23 years old and had spent the last thirteen years of his life taking care of her, for once, John thought, he deserved to make decisions for himself. So he put the letter in his little book of photos and notes and drabbles he wrote at night when he couldn't sleep, and didn't think of it again.

Two years quickly became four, four became eight. John had proven himself an invaluable member of his company's medic division, and by the end of the long years he was the only one who remained from his original medic team. The damp streets of London seemed like a far off memory. Harry wrote to him every so often; she and Clara weren't doing so well. She'd taken up drink again. There were often tearstains on the paper and John could tell she had written and sent the letter while drunk, without thinking. His mother died the same week he was made a captain, the same week he was made head doctor. The letter he sent her to tell her never made it in time. She overdosed on drugs, taking her own life. John was more angry than upset.

He was completely obsessed with his work after that, leading with a fierce determination to not let anyone else under his care die. His team spent most of their time on the field, away from the walls and order of a base. He preferred that, preferred to work in high-intensity situations where desperation took precedent over protocol. His favorite, though, was the civilian neighborhoods. The children, once realizing that they were no there to pump them full of lead, would hover around their tents, almost giddy to receive shots and by examined for various infections. John learned how to introduce himself and yell "medics, don't shoot!" in several languages, and the kids would laugh at his horrible pronunciation and his accent. He found that despite the fact that he was a seasoned soldier at that point, they still made him happy. He could still see himself having kids of his own. The realization made going back to London seem slightly less horrible. He could date again, maybe even settle down, work at one of the bases back at home, training new hopefuls. That didn't seem like too bad of an option.

It, of course, did not work out that way. When does it ever? It was late September, and John only had one other medic with him, travelling with a small group of soldiers in the dead of night to meet up with another team several miles away. They were all fairly silent in the back of the tank, each clutching their rifles loosely in their laps. The radio fuzzily played some rock song from the 80's that John vaguely remembered from his teenaged years. That's when the blast went off.

It was far enough off to not affect any of them, but immediately following the earth-shaking explosion, the gunfire started. John exited the vehicle as he had been trained to do, as he had done dozens of times, and fired into the darkness toward their attackers. That's when the bullet hit him squarely in the shoulder, knocking him backward into the freezing sand, making lights dance in his eyes and his ears ring. He took a moment on the ground before getting back on his feet, ignoring the searing pain and the hot blood running down his arm and chest, continuing to defend his team. When the firing stopped and they decided their attackers were gone, he assessed his group.

The other medic was dead, shot straight through the head with no hope of survival. John didn't even need to examine him closely to determine that. The others were unharmed, but they were obviously concerned for him. The entire front of his uniform was red, and he realized if he lost much more blood he'd pass out. The others helped him into the back of the tank and they loaded their fallen companion's body into the back, covering him with a tarp, before getting back in and continuing their drive.

"Captain, what can I do, sir?" said the young man sitting in the back with him. John waved him off, gritting his teeth as he pulled off the top half of his uniform, assessing the damage. The bone was shattered, hanging loose in places that it should not have been. Taking a steadying breath, John dug through his medical bag and found the proper tools before digging the pieces of the bullet out of his own shoulder. The others began to protest but he glared at them to shut up, and instead they hovered over him, waiting for him to pass out, more likely.

But he didn't. He miraculously was able to perform the extraction on himself, the pain taking on such a high level that it had gone almost numb. He stitched the skin together, knowing they would undo the suture once they arrived at the base, to make sure he didn't miss any pieces of the bullet, and held his bunched-up t-shirt to the wound, looking straight ahead, refusing to show any emotion or fear.

They gave him a medal. A goddamned medal and a discharge notice. "Hey thanks for your service, now get the fuck out." No use for an army doctor who could barely lift his arm. Stitched him together, made a big to-do about how honored they were to serve with him, and sent him on the first plane back to London. Army Captain turned invalid. Welcome home.

To say he was bitter would be a gross understatement. John was furious, jumpy, irritable. Harry picked him up from the airport. He stayed with her for about a week before finding himself a tiny, run-down flat in the city. He knew he wouldn't be able to afford it for long. Since arriving in the cold city he hand found his leg was stiff, that he needed a cane to limp about, though his biggest problem was his arm. After the four weeks of physical therapy, he was able to move almost normally again, aside from his leg. The army required him to go to PTSD therapy. As opposed to wasting time telling his entire service story, he brought the therapist his book of photos and stories; it was a journal, really, but it served no purpose to him anymore. The man who had written it was vibrant and important and needed, not at all the grumpy man in the jumper because it was so goddamned cold in this damn city. Everything seemed soft around the edges, gray, useless, boring. He missed the painfully hot sun, the constant sunburns, the yelling.

With the limping came the dreams. His therapist referred to them as nightmares, but they weren't, not really. When they woke him up he felt more lonely and lost than afraid. Even the ones where he gets shot, he doesn't fear. War he understands. Life, not so much. His army pension paid for his flat, but he knew he needed to find work. He can't bring himself to do it, can't accept the fact that he is in the exact same position he was trying to avoid by joining the army. Can't stand the fact that he has no idea where next week's meals are going to come from. He hates his sister, for her divorce, for her drinking problem. He hates his father for dying, his mother for dying. He hates himself for hating them.

He wasn't sure what made him interested in walking through the park that day. Maybe it was because the sun was finally out. He missed sun. After that night's dream of action and adrenaline and heat, he couldn't sit in his dark flat. So he went for a walk, desperate for exercise. When he saw Mike sitting on the bench he almost kicked himself, praying the man wouldn't recognize him, not like this, limping as he was.

"John! John Watson!" Shit. He turned around to the man, "Mike, Mike Stamford! We were at Bart's together…"

"Yes, of course, hello…" John finally sighed, knowing there was no way out now. Mike bought him a coffee and the conversation turned to money. Funny how stupid things were suddenly so important when no one is being shot at regularly.

"Who'd want me as a flatmate?" John said, exasperated, when Mike suggested he find one to stay in London. He was surprised when the man got a wistful look on his face, smiling.

Such was the day that would change his life forever; the day he met the mysterious, dark haired man with the cat-like eyes who skipped mundane things like introductions and greetings. In a way, John appreciated that about him, though the sane part of him realized it was both rude and completely unconventional. It felt a little bit more like the distant deserts; no messing about, only straight facts and necessary words exchanged.

Being with Sherlock Holmes changed John Watson, in the same way that he father's death changed him, the same way the army changed him. John had become this malleable clay of a man, adjusting and adapting to situations as they came to him. Sherlock was a child most of the time, a brilliant one, but a child none the less. John took over the role of caring for him and keeping him safe without much thought about it. That was the role he needed to fill, and so he filled it. It's what made their relationship so successful.

No, John Watson had many expectations placed on him, but he hardly placed any on himself. He was too multi-faceted for that. John Watson was a soldier, a doctor, a caregiver, a friend, and a great man. He asked for very little and gave himself up selflessly. It was an attest to his heart, his golden heart, so brave and strong and selfless and good. And it was Sherlock Holmes who complimented that in all the correct ways, without knowing it adjusting John to civilian life through their never-ending string of cases, experiments, murders and arguments. Uniting the soldier, the doctor, the giver, and the friend into one cohesive unit that was vibrant and good and needed; and that's what John began to expect of himself, to be that man, the one Sherlock needed, even if neither of them knew it.

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><p><strong>Don't forget to leave reviews!<strong>


	3. More to Offer

**A/N: Hello! I'm gonna just give a warning for this one, it features drug use. If you don't like that sort of thing, feel free to skip forward. As always I appreciate the time you've taken to read this fic. –xo**

More to Offer

When Carl died Sherlock became more introverted than he had ever been before, focusing on his school with a fierce determination that even made his teachers uneasy. He graduated two years early and went on to Oxford, mostly because he didn't want to move back in with his father. He found the entire schooling system to be boring and tedious; his mental prowess putting him far ahead of the others despite that he was sixteen years old at one of the greatest schools in the world.

The problem, Sherlock found, was not in the complexity of his classes or the extreme amount of work that the other students constantly complained about, but rather what to do with all of his spare time. Sherlock studied chemistry, biology, language, and history, but still had a hard time shutting off his brain when the work was done and the information stored away. He had no friends, never got invited to parties (which he wouldn't have attended anyway, to be fair), and his most constant companion was his violin, which had annoyed three consecutive roommates out of their dorm in frustration from the brilliant young man.

When he was eighteen, his father died of a heart attack. It was summertime, and Sherlock had stayed in Oxford to attend random seminars and work with professors in the chemistry labs. The professors tolerated his horrible social skills and cockiness because he was, in fact, brilliant, often catching the smallest things that would lead to major breakthroughs. He reluctantly left the school to join his brother in London for the funeral, though he was extremely unhappy about it and made it very clear to Mycroft that he did not want to be there longer than was necessary. He didn't cry for his father, and his brother looked more stressed out than anything else. He had gained a position in the government with their father's help, and owned a beautiful town home in the city. Sherlock made it his goal to both touch and break as many items of Mycroft's décor as possible while he was staying at the house.

The funeral was unbearable for none of the normal reasons. Sherlock wore a suit and sat next to his brother, who kicked him several times for scoffing or yawning during various speeches their father's various acquaintances made. Mycroft told the eulogy, managing to give the impression of steely sadness and act like he was genuinely sorry to see the man go. Maybe he was. Sherlock wasn't really concerned either way; he hated his father and his father had hated him, so it really wasn't such a solemn event so much as a hassle. After the burial and Sherlock had wiped his hands clean of the dirt he'd thrown over his father's casket, he sat in Mycroft's car while his brother thanked their distant relatives and his coworkers for coming; they weren't going to put anyone through the torture of a dinner party where people were forced to say nice things about the late Mr. Holmes. Mycroft got in the back of the car and they drove in silence back to his home.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you." The elder Holmes brother said the next morning, noticing Sherlock walking past the open door to his office. His brother rolled his eyes but entered the room, sitting across from Mycroft, putting his feet up on the huge mahogany desk between them just to be annoying. He sighed, running a hand through his thinning brown hair, looking at a stack of papers in his hands. "Father's will has been released."

Sherlock snorted, "That was fast. How many people did you have to pay off to accomplish that?"

His brother glared at him, setting down the papers, "He's left everything to me. The old house, his money, all of it. Aside from the trust fund mummy left you, he's given you nothing." Mycroft frowned as he spoke, obviously expecting Sherlock to be upset or even angry, but the tall boy shrugged.

"Probably better that way. Not that I'd want anything of his anyway." Sherlock put his hands behind his glossy, curly head and leaned back languidly.

"The problem, Sherlock, is that it was his money that was paying for you to go to Oxford." Mycroft said with a sigh, rubbing his temple, "Now I have to transfer all of the accounts to my name before your next term begins and _what-are-you-grinning-at?_" he slammed his hands on the desk, annoyed at the sudden look of elation of his brother's face.

"Father's dead. I can drop out of that heinous university now." Sherlock said gleefully, standing and bounding out of the room, Mycroft chasing after him.

"You cannot drop out of school, Sherlock! How do you expect to get any sort of decent career with no degree? Can you _think_ for one moment of your bloody life?" He yelled, chasing him up the stairs and into Sherlock's room, where he forcibly unplugged the desktop computer before Sherlock could pull up the page that would withdraw him completely from the school. The younger boy turned in his chair to glare up at him, identical gray orbs narrowed and shooting daggers into eachother.

"Oh, you want me to _think._ Yes, alright, Myky, let me just pause a moment and think," He stood so they were level, spitting his childhood nickname to his brother in his face with as much venom as he could muster. "I have spent an entire sheltered childhood in schools where I am always the most brilliant, always the outcast. I've had two people in my life actually care about me; one of them is _dead_, and the other is sitting in front of me being an idiot. What sort of career choices do you suspect a barely-adult sociopathic genius is open up to, and do be honest brother, I tire of sentiment."

Mycroft took a deep breath before lifting his eyebrows to his brother, obviously annoyed, "I don't know." He said finally, exasperated.

"Exactly. You don't know and neither do I. I want to _do_ something with this…this _gift _or whatever the hell you want to call it, and it's not exactly socially acceptable to be a professional philosopher anymore, is it?" he threw his hands in the air and stormed out of the bedroom, making sure to slam his shoulder hard against his brother's on the way out. He snatched his pack of cigarettes and his lighter from the bookshelf and slammed the door, stomping through the house and onto to street below.

As he angrily lit a cigarette, he began to walk out of his brother's posh neighborhood and out to where there were more people. He had, in his time at school, nearly perfected his method of analysis, a process he called deduction. It was a precise formula, but very simple; he merely took everything that couldn't be true out of the equation until he was left with the truth. He practiced on walks like this one, when he was annoyed with his classmates or simply bored. He could now at least pick up on people's careers, though their backstories were often murky. He figured when he perfected the art form he'd publish a book about it, or maybe start a website. Either way there had to be something useful he could do with the talent.

Sherlock eventually won out against his brother and was officially a university drop-out. He stole Mycroft's credit card and bought himself a set of science equipment and began experiments that would come to help in his deductions, setting them up in a room on the top floor of the house that was otherwise unoccupied. He read every book in his brother's house and there seemed to be a constant stream of deliveries as he ordered himself more. He made it his business to know something about everything and be an expert on thousands of subjects; everything from horticulture to taxidermy. He lived in a never-ending haze of science, harmlessly stalking people on the streets to study them, and cigarettes. Mycroft gave up trying to stop him after several weeks.

Sherlock didn't like to waste time sleeping, and his brother threatened to turn his violin into woodchips if he was woken up by it one more time, so Sherlock began to spend many nights out on the streets of London, just observing, studying the kind of people that were out on the streets at night. The criminals. He was obsessed with those, the ones who nervously walked down alleyways with a hand on front of their hip, ready to clutch their guns at a moment's notice. The thieves, the kidnappers. He often would lurk on crime scenes just to watch the way they were handled, mentally noting the holes in investigations.

It was this new obsession with crimes that lead him to the homeless young men and women who made camps under bridges and along the river. He liked most of them, liked how they were painfully honest and didn't have much reservation once a few bills were passed into their hands. They told him about the police, the more prominent members of the force, and he told them about his deductions. Sherlock would often sit with them for hours, verbally explaining something he had been working on, mostly for his own benefit, as it helped to talk much of his problems out in order to find a solution.

That was when they told him about the drugs. Many of them were addicted to it; they told him how it sedates appetite and heightens thoughts. Curious, Sherlock decided to try it; on his own terms, with his own hospital-grade sterile needles. The effect was pleasant and greatly helped his work, and it didn't take long for an addiction to develop. But Sherlock was sneaky; Mycroft knew he was obviously taking something, but every time he tore apart his brother's room, he found no evidence of the drugs. Weeks turned into months, and he saw less and less of Sherlock, who became a hermit in the lab he had created for himself, or otherwise running wild around London.

At the same time, Greg Lestrade had just become Detective Inspector at the Yard. He was distinctly proud of himself, recently married with a new, prestigious job. Yet the old call of the danger and constant action of the police force still haunted his thoughts, and he often longed to be back on the streets, instead of lurking at murder scenes. The pay was good and the work was tiring, but there was still the spark of adventure seemed to dim more and more after every homicide and kidnapping.

It was December when he started having problems at home, his wife constantly bickering with him about every little thing. He began to find excuses to stay at work late into the night. All of his paperwork was done, his desk completely organized, unsolved cases still completely baffling in their file, solved ones tucked away to be forgotten. It wasn't even midnight yet. He sighed, reluctantly grabbing his coat and heading out, when he noticed his sergeant, Donovan, making a call to have an officer head out with her on a bust.

"What's going on?" Greg asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"Oh, some kid has been caught buying on the streets. Seller ran off. I'm supposed to go down there to question the kid…" her voice trailed off, obviously annoyed. To her, midnight was obviously far too late to be working.

"I'll go. You go home, Sally." She gave him a confused look, but shrugged, handing him a radio as she strode out. Greg followed her out of the building, only separating when he climbed into the squad car and headed off toward the address he received through the radio.

He hadn't been on a drugs bust in years, but they usually were very similar; strung out, scruffy kids with shaking hands and foul mouths that opened far too often. It wasn't at all what he was greeted with when he pulled up to the dark street corner in an industrial part of town. The officer who had arrested him was leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed, looking annoyed as he glared at the tall boy leaning languidly against the brick wall opposite, a cigarette dangling from a long-fingered hand that was cuffed to its mate in front of him. The first thing Lestrade noticed was how extraordinarily well kept the boy was: he wore a silk button down shirt and pressed black trousers and a coat he was sure cost at least half his weekly paycheck. The boy couldn't have been more than twenty, clean-shaven with glossy black curls and knowing gray eyes. He didn't look scared or angry, as most people did; instead he gave off an air of cockiness and annoyance, checking his watch as he saw Greg's car pull up.

A knowing smirk played across the boy's face as he climbed out and approached them, hands in his pockets. The detective inspector appraised him, obviously surprised, obviously intrigued, and Sherlock lifted the cigarette to his lips with unshaking hands. Greg looked to the officer, who gives a small shrug and shook his head, like he was confused. How odd. He turns back to the boy, he gives a fake smile. "Hullo, son." Lestrade starts slowly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing a stream of smoke, "I really would rather we skip all the pleasantries. You want to know who I was purchasing from and I'm not going to tell you." He takes another drag, looking bored out of his mind. Lestrade huffs, crossing his arms.

"Alright…_why_ won't you tell me, then?" He takes the report from the officer's hands, reading over it. Sherlock Holmes. The last name rings a bell, if only a faint one. Caught in possession of cocaine, recently purchased, the seller escaped. He looks at the little confiscated bottle in the bag behind the paperwork and frowns.

"Because he, unlike myself, cannot afford to bail himself out. Can we get on with it, then? I have work to do." Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes an agitated drag from the cigarette. Lestrade ignores him, reading over the details, frowning as he realizes that without Sherlock's compliance there is no reason to be here at all; he was clearly rich by the look of his clothes, undoubtedly with a trust fund to pay off any charges against him.

"If you can afford bail, why the hell are you buying drugs off the street? I've dealt with this before, but never by someone with enough money to get a private supply." He crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows at him, frowning.

Sherlock rolled his eyes; the simple answer to that was that he knew the seller, knew that he was a desperate man who needed money to feed his family, and he trusted most of the homeless people of London much more than any rich drug tycoon. But he wasn't about to tell Lestrade that. Instead he exhaled slowly and scanned him thoroughly before flicking the butt of his cigarette away. "You're new to your job, aren't you inspector?" A knowing smirk played on his pale lips and Greg scoffed.

"Not your first time being caught, huh?" He shook his head. Typical. Hardly ever the first time with these kids; they get careless after two or three.

"Of course it's my first, don't be an idiot. I'd tell you we should be quicker about this again but then you don't want to go home at all, so you'll humor me, take your time. Wife not what you expected? I've always found marriage to be a tedious, painful experience." His voice was drawling, bored, clearly showing off. Lestrade stared open-mouthed at him before he felt his ears grow hot.

"How the bloody hell did you know that?" he asked angrily, and Sherlock smirked in reply.

"I don't know, I notice. It's midnight, you're a detective inspector and this is a drugs case, not exactly your line of work but you're here alone, probably because you were the only one left at the office when the call was made. But why are you there this late at all? You've got a scratch on your wedding ring, an old one, but you've yet to get it repaired, that says marriage problems, but the ring is fairly new so it's a new wife. Obvious."

"How could you tell I was new?" Lestrade stuttered after a pause.

"I make it my business to know things, detective inspector. Lord knows I have enough time for it." He rolled his eyes, seeming to be lost in thought, before glaring at him again, "Shall we?" He motioned his head to the squad car, exasperated, and Greg nodded, leading him to his own car to take him to the Yard so he can fill out the necessary paperwork. The boy strode beside him, undeterred, and got into the car with the air of a prince entering a limousine. Rolling his eyes, Greg slams his door and slides into the driver seat, mulling over the fact that this young man had been able to tell so much from such little information. As they drove a call came on the radio, a body of a young homeless girl found along the river. He saw through the rearview mirror Sherlock sit up taller, listening intently.

"Looks like we're making a stop then, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said, a little relieved at the distraction. In the back seat, Sherlock leaned his head against the window, frowning.

They pulled up alongside other squad cars, flashing lights illuminating otherwise dark area along the Thames. Greg turned around to glare at Sherlock through the plated glass barrier, "Right. You're staying here, we'll deal with you when I finish here." With that he exited the car, locking it behind him as he walked with his hands in his pockets toward the body. His team is already there, most looking annoyed about being called in in the middle of the night. The teenaged girl was sprawled along the gravelly ground, a razor blade in her hand, both wrists slashed. Greg pulled on the rubber gloves and kneel next to the girl, frowning as he examined her. "Suicide?" He asks, looking up to Anderson, who nodded.

"Oh for heaven's sake, it's obviously a murder." Said a slightly familiar deep voice behind him, and Greg whipped around to glare at Sherlock, still handcuffed, standing behind him.

"How the hell did you get out!" He yelled, standing up and pulling his jacket aside to reveal his gun. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please, inspector, it doesn't take a genius to break out of a vehicle. I could have quietly escaped into the night, but instead I chose to go into a crime scene swarming with police. Not exactly threatening, am I?" He sighed in annoyance and cocked his head, examining the girl critically.

"Who the bloody hell is this?" Anderson scoffed, crossing his arms petulantly.

"An idiot who is about to get sent to prison." Greg replied heatedly, reaching to violently grab Sherlock's elbow. He didn't even respond to the touch, eyes locked on the girl.

"If you take me now you'll just have let a murderer run free. This wasn't a suicide." He replied evenly, turning to face Lestrade.

"Excuse me but we've got _specialists _here, kid. Why don't you put your silver spoon back in your mouth and get back in the car?" Anderson spit in annoyance, and Sherlock turned to glare at him, eyes scanning him before deciding he isn't worth his time and turning back to Greg. "Inspector, get him away from here! This is a crime scene, any unauthorized person—" he stopped as Lestrade held up a hand, looking intently at Sherlock, remembering how much the young man had noticed before.

"How do you know?" He asked him, ignoring the frustrated scowl from Anderson's direction, and Sherlock's eyes widened, surprised someone was actually listening to him.

"There's bruising around her jaw, from a hand being forcibly held to her nose, suffocated. The cuts are clean on both wrists, which wouldn't have happened if she had cut one with a good hand and then passed the blade to a bleeding hand to cut the other. My guess is that the killer used a plastic bag, easy enough to find along the river with the rest of the litter, suffocated her and then used the blade to slash her wrists to make it look like she did it. She's a junkie, you can see the scars on her arm from the needles, it was probably because she stole the drug. Her coat pocket has been torn off. The man ripped it while getting the bottle back from her." He frowned; this death was a little too close to home for his taste. He even recognized the girl, though he didn't know his name.

"Any idea who did it?" Lestrade asked, frowning as he reached in his pocket to get the keys to the handcuffs, unlocking them from Sherlock's wrists. He rubbed the raw skin gratefully, kneeling next to the girl, looking intently. He examined the hand that held the razor and noticed a gingery-red hair, which he pointed to. Lestrade lifted it with a gloved hand, giving Sherlock a confused look. The nearly-invisible hair was tainted with blood, but it was clearly long and wildly curly.

"Yes, I know exactly who." He said, and the next few hours were spent giving a detailed report of the man, a Scott who worked for one of the bigger drug tycoons in the city, doing dirty work. He was behind bars by the time the sun rose, and Lestrade brought Sherlock into his office back at the yard, pouring them both coffee as he sat across from the desk, looking pleased with himself.

"That was impressive, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said finally, rubbing his eyes.

"Just Sherlock. And anyone with eyes could have seen it, your team is just stupid." He took a sip of the coffee and frowned as he looked at the pager in his wallet. Mycroft had paged fourteen times. Idiot.

"Well, Sherlock. You are not off the hook, not in the least. But I'm willing to offer you a deal: you can serve your community service with me, on cases, _if _you get off the drugs." He crossed his arms, hoping this wasn't an idiot plan, but to be perfectly honest he'd never met anyone as brilliant as the young man. Sherlock seemed to light up before him before taking on a collected air.

"I suppose that could work out, inspector." He said smugly, but he was clearly pleased.

"Good. Now, who am I calling to get you? Your mum and dad?" He lifted the phone on his desk, hand hovering over the dial expectantly.

"No. I'd really rather not get picked up. I can take a cab." Sherlock shifted; the last thing he needed was Mycroft pestering him.

"Yeah, no. I need someone to know about this so that I know that you're keeping up your end of the bargain. You're young, you've got to still be in touch with your family."

"My parents are dead. I live with my brother." Sherlock finally said with a sigh, rubbing his temple. He gave Lestrade Mycroft's number before he could offer stupid condolences or questions. Within twenty minutes Mycroft entered the office without knocking, umbrella at his side, sighing knowingly at his brother. Lestrade stood and offered him coffee, which he refused, and a seat, which he also refused. He stood next to his brother and listened to the entire story in silence, turning to Sherlock when it was out.

"You are very kind to give my brother such a chance. I'm sure he will not be stupid enough to waste it." The words were very pointed, and Sherlock scowled, turning his head away. "Thank you, Inspector." And with that, they left the Yard and climbed into Mycroft's towncar before speaking again.

"Sherlock, that was incredibly stupid of you, getting caught like that." He finally sighed, "This…addiction, of course I will get all the necessary equipment and specialists so we can handle it at home, but—"

"Unnecessary. I will break it on my own. Alone." Sherlock said in a tight voice, crossing his arms.

"Sherlock you cannot just cut yourself off, you can die from such things!"

"In case you haven't noticed, big brother, I could care less. My mind is more powerful than my body, and I can train myself away from this. Don't bother getting involved. You are not my babysitter." He kept his eyes glued on the tinted window, glaring at the shadowy figures of people walking outside.

"No, but as your brother and your primary guardian—"

"I am an _adult,_ and you are not father!" Sherlock snapped, whipping around to glare at him. Mycroft met his glare evenly, silent, before finally turning to his own window. Sherlock had won that argument, as usual.

The next few weeks were miserable, painful, and took every ounce of personal strength Sherlock could muster. He gave all of the drugs, the needles, everything, to Mycroft, except for a small vile and needle, which he locked in a box and tucked away into his bookshelf, mostly to remind himself of what he had done to his mind and body, but also in case of an emergency. The box remained locked. Once he was clean, he reported to Lestrade, who actually seemed pleased to have him around, despite the fact that Sherlock's cocky attitude clearly annoyed him most days.

It was Lestrade who recommended the job of detective to Sherlock, though he warned him that technically the police were not to consult a private detective. By adding the world "consulting" he was able to give himself a bit of wiggle room in the system, and by the end of the year Sherlock Holmes, at nearly twenty years old, had become the world's only Consulting Detective. His name became famous among police and crime-related scientists alike; most people couldn't stand him, and the ones that could only did so because they could appreciate his brilliance. He was given entry into St. Bart's, where he met Molly Hooper, who had taken an instant liking to him. Good for research, bad for the nerves, as Molly was painfully obvious in her attraction to Sherlock. Nevertheless, his brilliant mind was suddenly constantly being fed with crime, experiments, and the website he used Mycroft's credit card to pay for; The Science of Deduction. He spent much of his time alone, unless working on a case, and found that he immensely enjoyed it. He never had to miss anyone or care about someone's feelings or worry about someone's well-being. Yes, being alone was a fantastic thing, and he figured he could have spent the rest of his life friendless and happy. That is, until the day John Watson limped into his life.

**Please leave reviews!**


	4. Poppy

**A/N: Hey guys! Starry here! Just thought I'd give some info on this! This was inspired by the song Poppy by Zee Avi. :) My brain has been kinda running away with me lately. I hope you guys like it. This chapter also features drug use, and it takes place mid-canon (after the Great Game, but before Reichenbach) -Starry**

Poppy

People assumed that John Watson was something akin to Sherlock's pet dog. Following him faithfully everywhere, oblivious to his "master's" nature. He thought that they couldn't be more wrong. John knew exactly what Sherlock was. He also knew the day Sherlock started doing drugs again.

He'd come home to find his flatmate seemingly asleep on the sofa, which wasn't unusual. The smell, however, was. The smell left over by opiates was a distinct one. There was also an empty glass bottle and a needle on the floor.

He left his jumper hanging over the back of his chair and slowly approached Sherlock. Upon closer inspection, he found that the consulting detective wasn't asleep. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was forming silent words.

"Sherlock," John whispered, brushing his fingers lightly across Sherlock's cheekbones. This caused the dark haired man to slowly open his eyes. His normally sharp gaze struggled to focus on John's face. His mouth moved for a few moments before he managed to get actual words out,

"Carl." Being called by another person's name would have been enough to stop John in his tracks on a good day. Being called the name of a dead teenager truly confused him. If it was Carl Powers that Sherlock was even talking about.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" The consulting detective grinned lazily at him,

"I've missed you. We were supposed to meet in the library. What kept you, Carl?"

"Carl?"

"Are we back on a last name basis? Should I just call you Powers? You're not still cross at me for breaking our date last week, are you? I really couldn't leave my experiment."

"N-no, I'm not cross with you. There's um, there's no need for last names," John stammered. He was really lost now. Sherlock had not only known the murdered boy, but had dated him? For reasons unknown to him, this knowledge caused an uncomfortable tightening in his abdomen. He didn't like the thought of the two of them together, no matter how long ago it was.

He was jerked from his thoughts by the feel of Sherlock's arms wrapping around his neck, tugging him down. Sitting so he didn't sit on the slimmer man, John stared down at him, unsure of what to do next. He certainly didn't expect for Sherlock to lean up kiss him. It was quite a nice kiss too. In all honesty, John had wondered whether Sherlock even knew how to kiss. Evidently he did.

The kiss broke and Sherlock fell back onto the couch, unconscious. Leaving John to sit awkwardly and continue to stare at him. He was shocked to learn that Sherlock had ever dated, even more shocked that the boy he's dated was now dead, and most shocked that Sherlock had decided to kiss him now.

Of course, he didn't know he'd been kissing his old, frumpy flatmate. He'd apparently thought he was back in school. Later, when he thought about it, he thought he should have been angry that Sherlock had kissed him at all. As it was, he was angry and hurt over the fact that Sherlock had thought he was kissing Carl Powers.

He suppressed a sigh and began cleaning up the mess his friend had made. When he had the chore completed and out of the way, he lifted Sherlock, a feat that was made difficult due to his height, and that he was damn heavy for a skinny guy, and carried him to his room. Tucking him in, he turned out the lights and went out to the sitting room to brood.

Over the next few weeks, the situation became common place. Sometimes John would come home and Sherlock would be normal. Other times, he would be almost catatonic on the couch. It was during those times that John began to learn about Sherlock's life at boarding school. That was the time Sherlock's mind always seemed to travel to, and he always called John Carl.

One time, when Sherlock had been sober, John had asked him about Carl Powers. This had garnered him an odd look from Sherlock, who had shrugged and told him that Carl was "no one important." This had confirmed John's suspicion that Sherlock was unaware of what transpired when he was high. And John never mentioned it again.

So, they went on as they had been; running about London, solving crimes, and driving both the Yard and Mycroft insane. John quietly took care of Sherlock when he needed it. He felt guilty, because every time Sherlock was high, they would kiss. The one time he'd tried to tell him no, Sherlock had pouted and whined about how "Carl" didn't care about him, so John had given in.

He tried not to let it bother him, but everytime John got called Carl it stung, and left him feeling wounded. Not that he would say anything. He didn't want Sherlock to know how much he knew about Carl, or the times they'd kissed. He merely endeavored to convince Sherlock to stay off of the drugs. He didn't know why his friend had even picked up his drug habit again.

"Does it matter why?" He found himself wondering one day while he was doing the laundry. He scowled and mentally scolded himself, of course it mattered. If he found out the why, then maybe he could convince Sherlock to stop by offering him a better solution. Nodding, he decided to annoy Sherlock until he told him.

His plan went miserably. Anytime he asked, Sherlock just snapped at him, then refused to talk to him for hours. So, John wasn't surprised a few days later when he came home to a, yet again, high Sherlock.

"John..." The sound of his own name from Sherlock's lips surprised him. Never before had Sherlock been aware that it was him. He always thought he was talking to Carl. Normally, John would have been happy. Now though, Sherlock sounded like a scared child.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"No John, there are dragons. Crawling on the walls. Dragons, John. I thought dragons weren't real. They scare me, John.: While he continued to ramble about dragons, John made his way over to the couch quickly. Sherlock's skin was cold, but he was sweating and shaking. Picking him up, which was easier now than it had been the first time, he took Sherlock to his room.

There he got Sherlock cleaned up and into his pajamas. All the while, Sherlock kept on about the dragons.

"What do the dragons want Sherlock?"

"You," was the whispered reply, "they want to take you away from me. Like they did Carl. They tried at the pool, but they failed. They're not done trying. Don't leave me, John."

John nodded, and rubbed his back, trying to calm down his frantic friend, "Of course I won't leave you. I have nowhere else I want to be."

This seemed to relieve Sherlock, who slowly fell asleep, leaning against John.


	5. Error 404: Object Not Found

Error 404: OBJECT NOT FOUND

~Sherlockian-Spy~

His mind was what mattered. Everything else was transport. His mind was different than most people's. He could fully delete information that he deemed unimportant, and retain down to the smallest detail whatever he cared about. It was how he did his job.

He never thought he would be unable to delete something. He couldn't though. He couldn't delete a single thing pertaining to John Watson. He could remember how John took his coffee, his favourite jumper, favourite food, colour, song, everything. He knew his blood type and he also knew unimportant things; like who John's friends were. He couldn't forget.

It was a problem. He'd left London after his "death" to start over. Mycroft had helped him set up a new identity, after Sherlock had told him he was alive, and he'd tried to forget London and all that went with it. Done his best to delete his feelings for the people there. He couldn't delete John Watson though; he could still remember everything about him.

He couldn't go a day without seeing his face, without hearing John's voice telling him to sleep or eat. He had to see him, regardless of the threat of Moran. Being without John Watson drove him to distraction. He later decided that was why he didn't notice the car come careening towards him.

He woke up to white walls and his brother's concerned face.

"Myc," he winced at how weak his voice sounded, "What happened?"

His brother stared at him for a moment,

"You were hit by a car. Sherlock, what's the last thing you remember?"

"I was with Lestrade at Scotland Yard, trying to catch that drug dealer."

"That was over a year and a half ago, Sherlock. You don't remember anything after that?"

Sherlock thought for a long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. With a sigh, he leaned back against his pillows.

"No. I don't remember anything else."

Sherlock couldn't help but feel like something important was missing. He scoffed at himself after- a moment? He was missing almost two years of his life. Of course he felt bothered by that. He ignored the little voice that said it was something else. That is was some_one_ else.

"I'm going to let your doctor know you're awake." Mycroft told him before leaving the room. Sherlock nodded at him before focusing on what his brother had said. Namely the word **'doctor.' **The word stirred something in Sherlock's mind for a moment before it was gone. He growled in frustration, it felt like his mind was working against him.

It had always been the most important thing to him. His mind had always been something he could rely on and now it was hiding things from him. Closing his eyes, he retreated to his mind palace.

Almost immediately he found himself in a corridor. The room that housed the memory of his last remembered case was behind him. All of his memories before that were there, the path to their doors was unblocked. He looked in the opposite direction, towards the corridor where the last year and a half was housed, and was faced with what resembled a boarded up door.

"Mister Holmes."

The doctor's wheezy voice took him from his mind palace and back to the hospital. Instinct told him to growl angrily at the doctor, but his common sense stopped him. It was unlikely, but maybe the man could help him get past the door that had been boarded up. It took him a long moment of the doctor staring at him before he realized the man expected him to answer.

"Yes, doctor?"

There it was again, that nagging feeling that came with the word.

"Your brother tells me your latest memories are from roughly a year and a half ago. We have no guaranteed way to restore your lost memories-"

"Boarded up."

The doctor blinked in surprise, "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock sighed as if the man were an annoying toddler,

"The memories aren't lost. They're there but it's like the door to them has been boarded up."

"Sherlock has always been able to organize his thoughts into rooms in his mind," Mycroft explained.

"Oh, fascinating. That must be very handy. As I was saying, there is no sure-fire way to restore you memories. They will either return or they won't. I suggest you stay with your brother until you're a least caught up. Your broken leg has been set. The cast needs to stay on for at least twenty weeks. You're fine otherwise and you can go home tomorrow, so long as no complications arise."

With a nod to both the Holmes brothers, the doctor left the room.

"I don't want you to tell me anything. I'll find a way to get past that boarded door."

"Very well. There are some things you do need to know. One of those things is the new pin number to your bank account. The other is that you are going to stay with me."

"I assume I no longer live in the same flat, then?"

"You would assume correctly. Also, until your memories are unboarded, it would be best if you refrained from working with the Yard. They don't need to know about this."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, "Won't they find it... odd?"

Mycroft smiled wryly, "I don't think so. Now, you're probably tired. I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock."

He spent a total of thirteen months at Mycroft's house, trying to get past the boarded up door. He couldn't seem to work a single board loose. Deciding some fresh air would be good for him, that it would be helpful even, Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed out to walk about London.

He knew his brother would say it was a bad idea, he did anytime Sherlock wanted to go for a walk, but he couldn't take being cooped up in the house anymore. He felt like a caged animal. Walking around the city would do him good. He just knew it.

He'd been walking for close to an hour when he strolled past Bart's hospital. He thought about going inside, but decided against it. He didn't want to smell the cleaning chemicals, or the chemicals used in experiments. As he stood in front of the building, he noticed a short blonde man walking out. His posture was straight, but his head was bent down signaling that he felt hurt and lost. He had his mobile out, preparing to make a call ('Girlfriend, most likely' Sherlock thought) when he looked up.

His reaction most certainly was not what Sherlock expected.

The man dropped his, obviously expensive phone, and just stared at him for a moment. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Then, he began to race towards Sherlock, enveloping him in a bone crushing hug.

"You bastard. I thought you were dead. Was it all a joke to you? Because it wasn't funny. Not at all."

Sherlock frowned at the top of the blonde's head, "Who are you?"


	6. Eloquent

**Hello my darlings. Starry and I really appreciate all the support and reviews we've been left! This is my post-reichenbach story from John's side. Enjoy! –xo**

Eloquent

Some nights, John dreamed of angels.

Well, usually just one angel in particular, but that wasn't quite the point.

The point was that, in his sleeping hours, when not haunted by horrible images of warzones and sidewalks stained with blood and the sound of a body hitting cold concrete, he'd see the raven-haired angel with the great, feathered wings. In his waking hours he'd realize he had probably been watching far too many films on the telly, that the images of his best friend as some sort of semi-transparent kindred spirit belonged in a Shakespeare modernization, not in the dreams of a soldier for God's sake. But still, the angel came to him. Sherlock, haunting his thoughts day and night, determined to infuriate him even in the afterlife.

He hadn't put much thought into religion during his youth; it had never really been present growing up. If asked, he'd shrug and say he was Christian, he supposed. Celebrated Christmas and Easter his entire life, so that seemed to answered that question. It was easier to accept that there was in fact a God and an afterlife when he joined the military; it was much easier willingly stepping into battle with a gun in your hands when you thought you could at least get out of the bloody desert at some point, dead or alive.

Or, at least, that's what most of them told themselves.

Sherlock certainly didn't believe in God. He regarded religion with the same amount of respect as he held fairy tales—that is to say, not highly. Sherlock believed in what he could see and study and deduce and prove; everything God wasn't. He had tolerated Christmas but didn't go out of his way to celebrate it. In fact, as far as he could tell, John was the only person the man had ever given a gift to. He still wore the (extremely overpriced) watch to work every day, though he'd had to get battery replaced twice and the scratched crystal face of it repaired after…well, after. A little reminder of the heart he may have had. The heart John was _convinced _he'd had, though others were rather skeptical.

Despite everything (the therapist, the mourning, the return of the infamous psychosomatic limp, the nightmares, the epic battle of John Watson vs. the bills, the ever-present worried looks from his friends and family), John Watson was not broken. He refused to be. He hated his best friend for the decision he had made, for the suicide. Sherlock Holmes had been brilliant, beyond brilliant. John knew that whatever had happened on that rooftop that day had been much more than the detective mooning about his fall from grace enough to jump the fuck off a building. Sherlock wasn't stupid. Whatever his reasons for jumping, it wasn't out of shame. John was sure of this. It didn't make him hate the choice any less, didn't make him consider it anything other than Sherlock Holmes' most selfish act.

When he'd dreamed of Sherlock the first night in a non-traumatizing way, he'd woken up gasping, tears that had started in the dream continuing to pour down his face. An angel. A bloody _angel_! All dark, mop-like curls and shining gray eyes and wings like caressing arms wrapped around them as he stared silently into John's face, knowing smile on his pale lips. That was all. Just standing there with Sherlock, staring into the eye's he'd known so well before, and with a great gust of wind the man had flown away, and John was alone. It hurt so much worse than nightmares of his broken body.

That night was more than a month after the fall. He'd been back at 221B for a total of two weeks, having taken the time after his best friend's funeral to sleep on Harry's couch. When his back could no longer handle the too-soft cushions, he returned home. The silence was heartbreaking; there were no violins in the middle of the night, no explosions from the kitchen, no gunshots from the couch. He hadn't realized how vibrant and exuberant and full of life Sherlock had been until he was dead in the ground. It was the dream that ultimately made his decision, and (feeling stupidly afraid), he pulled on his silk dressing gown and marched down the stairs to the closed door to Sherlock's bedroom. Neither he nor Mrs. Hudson had been in the room since that horrible day; it felt taboo. He stood outside of the door for a long while. A minute? An hour? He had no idea, but when he finally reached his hand out to grasp the cold door handle, he felt himself shaking.

It was a bad idea to do this in the middle of the night; he realized it instantly. When he flicked on the switch he was confused by the muted blue lamplight, until he saw the dressing gown thrown carelessly over the shade. Everything, _everything_, was exactly as he had left it. Everything from the unmade bed to the books, some apparently tossed across the room in frustration, collapsed against the ground, pages bent like curved, broken backs. John walked, trance-like, through the messy room. It was as if he never left, as if he had woken up that morning, stormed about, and left on a wild goose chase. Just the dust indicated the truth, the time that had past. Dust…what had he said about dust?

It's eloquent.

_Yeah, real eloquent, mate._ John thought bitterly, slowly circling the room, hands hovering over the mess without actually touching anything. He couldn't, couldn't touch the things he had touched. The things he had interacted with, read, put his hands over, worn. The things that proved he'd once lived. And he was dead. Gone. Just dust settled over his life, settling in every crevice and edge of his stupid, _pathetic _life! And now he was in his bloody dreams too! John clenched his fist, squeezing his eyes shut. Eloquent, he'd called dust. Had Sherlock been eloquent? John hardly could remember. What had they talked about, what had they said, in quiet moments between cases? What had they argued about? Did any of it even matter now? He couldn't remember! He couldn't remember anything!

Just that Sherlock was gone, and he was alone.

"I've…well I've sort of taken up permanent residence in your room, mate. Don't exactly know how it happened…" John stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, shuffling in front of the gleaming headstone. "I'm sure you'd probably call me sentimental…probably mad too. God, sometimes I think I _am_ mad. I hardly feel the same anymore, Sher…" he carded a hand through his hair, leaning awkwardly on his cane. It had been several months since the funeral, but he still spent every Sunday afternoon with Sherlock's grave. Just out of habit, really. It helped him focus for the beginning of his week, helped him channel his anger and fears and, yes, even after all this time, hurt, and dispel them so he could focus on work. And his work _was_ important to him, it was the only thing that really made him feel like he was doing something good with his life.

He was fairly certain Mycroft Holmes had something to do with his new job at the Veteran's Hospital. The job offer came six months after Sherlock's death, two days after he had had tea with Mrs. Hudson and had apologized to her (again) for being behind on the rent because he had yet to find a new job. He didn't blame Sarah for firing him, not really. He'd missed enough work when Sherlock was alive, let alone all the time he missed when he was clinically depressed after his death. At least he'd stopped seeing the therapist.

"Been thinking about adopting a dog…I know you wouldn't approve…but the flat's plenty big enough. Lord knows I could use a companion. One of my colleagues at the hospital's dogs just had pups…" He sighed, squaring his shoulders, "Well…I'll see you next week then, Sher. I still…I mean, I'm still fighting your war, you know…Still standing up for you." He touched the top of the stone gingerly, shook his head, (as he always did) feeling stupid, and turned and limped out of the cemetery.

He did get the dog, that next Sunday. The first Sunday he hadn't visited Sherlock. A little English Bulldog pup whom he named Gladstone. He liked the dog; he was curious and headstrong and had no good sense as far as getting his nose into danger. Bit like him, he decided. Bit like Sherlock too. It was nice, having the dog to busy himself with. The two of them slept in Sherlock's old bed, went out for runs in the mornings, he even brought him to visit the grave a few times. It appealed to John's better nature, having something in his life to take care of. He was happier, and for the next year he slowly felt halfway normal again.

Except for the angel, that is. The stupid angel still visited his dreams, infrequently enough to catch him off guard and reduce him to a gasping, sobbing mess in the middle of the night. It was always the same, always a silent exchange, always huge wings wrapped around them, just staring into eachother's eyes. It was far too intimate to make him comfortable. The nightmares made him skittish and defensive, the angel dreams weak and powerless. Between the two recurring dreams, he was a wreck. While he was able to participate in life, put on a brave face, go through the motions, mornings were horribly lonely. He thought that he'd never be able to trust anyone again.

Which was why he found it very odd that Mary Morstan would ask him out in the early fall nearly three years after Sherlock had killed himself. He had hardly spoken to the woman, who was a volunteer at the hospital on nights and weekends. She was certainly pretty enough, with a bright smile and a vibrant, talkative personality. She was a school teacher, taught English Literature at a secondary school outside London, and he'd often caught her reading detective novels at the front desk during late night shifts when emergencies were few and far between. That, surprisingly enough, made him smile. She'd had one of those books tucked under her arm when she'd asked him to get coffee. And so he went.

It was an unusual first date, to say the least. She seemed to be making a point not to ask about his past or his future. Instead they spent hours shooting random questions at eachother until the restaurant had closed and the waitress had to ask them to leave. In that time he learned that her favorite color was mauve, her favorite car a Volkswagen bus, that she was also a dog person, and many other random facts. He didn't dream that night, and was surprised when he woke up to Gladstone slobbering in his face, anxious to go out on their morning run.

After that, the detective crossed his mind less frequently. The angel was still in his dreams, but he could handle those now. When he did cross John's mind, it was always fondly. He was no longer bitter, no longer alone. Finally able to accept the fact that the man was dead and was never coming back, and that was okay. His thoughts of Sherlock were fond and were subtle, like dust over his life. Eloquent. Always there but not always obvious. And for a few peaceful months, he thought that he would finally be okay again.

The anniversary of his death was hard, though. He hadn't slept the night before, instead sitting up by the fire with Gladstone snoring at his feet. He hadn't told Mary what the day meant to him, hadn't been able to explain to her that he still bore the scar of Sherlock's death on his heart. It wasn't much of an event, not really. He'd planned to just go to his grave with some flowers, sit for a while, and then go on his way. Mary invited him to an early dinner, and he'd accepted the invitation despite his better judgment. So when, after going to the grave, he gave the taxi driver the address to St. Bart's instead of to the flat, he was a bit surprised at himself. He hadn't been back on that street corner, had avoided it like the plague. Standing there, where he had stood those three years earlier, felt a bit surreal. The memories played like old records in his head, the last words faded and scratched but still remembered. He stood there for a long time, looking up at the building, quiet, when a missed call from Mary woke him from his trance. Shaking his head, he pulled out the phone to call her back, when he saw him.

Of course, it _couldn't be him_. Obviously. Sherlock was dead. The doubt stayed in his mind until their eyes met, and he saw the brooding expression, the eyes boring into him, deducing him. He didn't even notice that his phone fell out of his hand, didn't realize that he had ran forward to embrace him until he felt the long body stiffen under him.

"You _bastard_," he muttered against his chest, "I thought you were dead. Was it all a joke to you? Because it wasn't funny. Not at all."

He waited for a reply, for an explanation, or at least to wake up from this dream, when the reply rang painfully through his ears, crashing his world around him with enough force to make him want to black out.

"Who are you?"


	7. Who You Are

Who You Are

~Sherlockian-Spy~

Mycroft looked down at his ringing phone. The name _JOHN WATSON_ was flashing across his screen. His brow furrowed in confusion. Why would the army doctor be calling him?

"Hello?" He asked hesitantly.

Immediately the line was filled with John's angry voice, "Why didn't you tell me Mycroft? did you think it was funny?"

His heart sank, and Mycroft went cold, "What are you talking about, John?"

"Sherlock, Mycroft. Why wasn't I told he was alive? Didn't you stop to think I'd **eventually** see him?"

"No, I really didn't. Being as the cat is, apparently, out of the bag, Sherlock didn't want you to know. Even with Moriarty dead, his sniper is still a threat. He was protecting you."

"Why can't he remember me, Mycroft? If it was his decision to 'protect me'," Mycroft could hear the scorn John placed on the words, "then why doesn't he know who I am?"

The elder Holmes sighed, "Sherlock was in a very bad accident and, because of it, he has a certain amount of memory loss. It's why he is here with me in London. I was keeping an eye on him while he tries to break down whatever wall seems to be around his memories."

"You could have told me. I'm a doctor, I could have helped."

"How? No other doctor could."

"Fine, then, I'm his friend. We lived together over a year, I. Could. Have. Helped."

Mycroft had opened his mouth when there was the sound of the phone being taken, "Myc, I know I asked you not to tell me anything but I think you , Doctor Watson and I should have a nice, long conversation. I'm confused and I very much dislike being confused. When will you be free?"

Mycroft sighed, "Give me one hour. I just need to tie up some loose ends. I'll meet you and John at Baker Street."

John stared at Sherlock for a minute. The corner of his lips were turned up. He was amused by something.

"Sherlock?" The raven-haired man didn't look at him, was still zoned out on whatever he'd found so amusing.

"SHERLOCK!"

"What?"

"What did Mycroft say? Are we having some sort of meeting?"

"Yes. Baker Street. Roughly one hour."

He slipped his phone into his pocket and sighed. He was glad it hadn't broken or been stolen when he'd dropped it.

"Alright, I have to pick up some things up at the store. If you'd like I can give you directions to the flat. Oh heavens! I should warn Mrs. Hudson. Is there anything in particular you'd like from the store? I'm not sure if you still like the same things. Need milk, Mrs. Hudson took the last of it today. Get one of those little cakes Mycroft likes-"

"I'll go with you."

John gave him a blank look, "What?"

"I'll go with you to the store."

"You're serious? You'd willingly go to the store with me?" John stared at him incredulously, still shocked by his return, let alone his sudden eagerness, "…all right, let's go."

Sherlock fell into step behind John, who begun to mutter his list to himself, repeating the words over and over.

"For God's sake shut up. I remember what you said you need. That repetition is getting on my nerves."

John gave Sherlock a startled look. In a way, he'd forgotten his old flat-mate was with him, while at the same time every fiber of his being was aware of him; he was afraid he was dreaming again. 'It's a cruel dream if I am,' he thought to himself, shooting furtive looks at Sherlock. He couldn't help it. It was hard enough to resist the urge to touch him. Hug him. Something.

Once they were both at the store, John was both distracted and relieved by Sherlock's presence. He liked that he could feign that he'd forgotten what he was after, just so he could ask the detective for his help remembering. If Sherlock suspected him, he didn't say anything, nor did he complain about John's constant questions."

"Doctor Watson?"

John flinched at Sherlock's use of his last name, "John."

Sherlock frowned, "Very well, John. We were flat-mates, right?"

"Yes, for over a year. We solved crimes together. It's all up on my blog if you'd like to read any of it," John told him with a bit of a smile. He hadn't mentioned Moriarty, or Sherlock's 'suicide' to the man. He didn't fully understand the circumstance, so he didn't feel he should bring it up. Leave that to Mycroft.

In a way, John figured he should be mad at Mycroft. He'd obviously known Sherlock was alive. He'd seen how it affected the doctor. John wasn't mad though. He was happy. Happy his friend was alive, and happy that their last face to face conversation wouldn't be an argument. He was so happy that not even the chip and pin machines bothered him.

"John," Sherlock started, "not that I think you're a suspicious character or anything but, how do I know I can trust you?"

John's mouth twisted up into a wry smile. There was only one thing he could think to say "Because, I know about Carl Powers."

**A/N: So, I'm so sorry this has taken so long! My aunt passed away so I've been having a bit of hard time. I also have been dealing with the stress of getting ready for school. Please review! It really does help me to write faster! 3**

**Another A/N: Starry is awesome and actually kept up with this, the fact that this took so long to upload is completely my fault! Sorry! -Kait**


	8. Somebody That I Used to Know

**AN: Hey guys! Sorry this took so long, I've been super busy lately! Somehow this story has turned into some actual plot and chapters, eventually we will go back to one-shots. Leave reviews! –xo**

Somebody That I Used to Know

John hadn't felt so awkward in his flat since the day he had first gone to visit it, the day after he met Sherlock. Now, sitting in his chair across from the tall man, gripping a still-full (and now lukewarm) mug of tea, he was actually praying for Mycroft to show up soon. Or for Mary to call. Or for the ground to swallow him whole and wake him up from this nightmare. Every time he glanced up at the hauntingly familiar, angular face, he was met with the same clear gray eyes, narrowed and studying him, and the awkwardness seemed to increase by leaps and bounds. He didn't speak, didn't trust himself to not sound like a complete idiot, (the awkward rushed explanation of his limited knowledge of what he assumed was a romantic relationship with Carl proved to be just as uncomfortable as he would have imagined, and Sherlock had straightened and glared out the window with guarded eyes afterwards; John knew this to mean he was confused, but it still stung that the man truly didn't _know_ him, didn't trust him enough to tell him he didn't know what was happening to him or his brilliant, complicated mind), not that Sherlock would have preferred him to speak anyway. Even Gladstone, who was usually rambunctious and friendly with guests, had had enough good sense to clear the hell away, hiding in their bedroom as the uncomfortable silence fell over the flat.

Finally, blessedly, John felt the intense staring ease off, and Sherlock leaned back in his armchair, eyes scanning the flat. "There are bullet holes. In your wall." He observed in a bored tone, eyes flashing to John for the briefest moment. An invitation, then, to explain.

The doctor cleared his throat and set his mug on the coffee table, "Yes, er, you did that." He looked at him, hoping, perhaps, for some sort of recognition to flash across the detective's face, but he merely glared at the damaged wall before looking back at John with a bored expression. Foolishly, he felt his heart deflate a bit; was it really better having Sherlock back when he remembered nothing of their friendship? Blinking hard, John shoved the thought from his head. He was thrilled, beyond thrilled, and Sherlock's survival, even though the amnesia effectively prevented either of them from knowing or understanding why Sherlock had jumped or how he could have possibly survived. He glanced at his watch again, impatient.

"My brother is being purposefully late, hoping that you and I will have an opportunity to 'catch up' before he arrives." Sherlock drawled, fingers tapping in agitation against the armrest of his chair. "You've mentioned that you and I were _friends_ before. I must ask, John, if that was a completely honest assessment of our previous relationship."

John balked at him, resisting the urge to slam his head into a wall, feeling a blush creep up his throat, "No. No, I mean, we are—_were _best mates, of course. But, nothing…nothing more than that, no." he fumbled over his words, speaking too fast, shifting in his seat. His phone let off a quiet chime then, and he nearly leapt out of chair to retrieve it, opening the text message:

_Are you standing me up, Doctor Watson? ;) –Mary_

Swearing under his breath, he rubbed his face with his free hand. He had completely forgotten about lunch with Mary. Muttering an excuse to Sherlock, he ducked into the bedroom (Sherlock's old bedroom, the one he had moved into, though since the detective didn't remember he had no reason to feel embarrassed about this fact) and dialed her number. He sat on the bed beside Gladstone as it rang, rubbing his ear absentmindedly.

"Lonely hotline, Mary speaking." She greeted cheerfully, and John couldn't help but smile a little.

"Mary, er…" he frowned again, not knowing exactly how to explain, deciding on giving her as little information as possible, at least until Mycroft showed up, "I…can't make it today."

"Is everything alright, love?" she dropped the teasing instantly, her voice soft and caring and worried.

"Yes…something came up, an old friend got…in an accident. I need to help him. I'm so sorry." He prayed Mary wasn't so good at seeing through his lies as Sherlock and Mycroft always had been, chewing absentmindedly on a thumbnail.

Mary paused for a beat, "Do you need anything?" she finally asked, still concerned.

"No…no. I'll come see you in a few days when this is sorted." He glanced at the doorway, unsurprised to see Sherlock hovering there, seemingly studying the room, though his eyes kept flitting to John.

"Alright, love. Let me know if you need me. I love you."

"I..er, yes, I will. And…you too." He shifted uncomfortably and hung up the phone, slowly turning to face Sherlock head-on.

The catlike eyes met his, boring into him, and John forced himself to meet his gaze. Finally, Sherlock stepped into the room, coming forward so that he and John were close, but far enough away to not be considered uncomfortable, "Why stay in a relationship with someone when you have such obvious trust issues? It seems hardly fair to either party." He asked, casting a weary glance at the dog, who glared back with a low growl. Scowling, he turned his eyes back to John, who had placed a consoling hand on Gladstone's head before giving him another pained, confused look.

"I _do not_ have trust issues," he snapped back, narrowing his eyes, "Mary and I's relationship is perfect, actually. And I don't need a bloody know-it-all like you coming round here and mucking it up." As soon as he said the words he regretted them, though a sick part of him thrilled at the opportunity to stand here and argue with Sherlock Holmes; lord knows he never thought he'd do it again. Under his hand, Gladstone tensed protectively, growling lowly at Sherlock before John rubbed his ear comfortingly.

Much to John's chagrin, Sherlock merely straightened, his liquid eyes looking amused and…mischievous? His cupid's bow lips quirked up in a knowing smirk, "You do this often. Lashing out, weak insults. Putting me in my place. It was reflexive, your reaction to me, but not defensive. Interesting." His fingertips steepled together underneath his chin, and John was tempted to punch something, preferably the look of arrogance on the tall man's face. Sherlock looked like he was going to say something further, but just then a sharp rapping on the door sounded through the silence, and Mycroft let himself in, John leaping to his feet to meet him in the entryway. He hadn't seen him since the funeral, but the man looked almost completely unchanged, still wearing pristine suits that probably cost twice John's monthly salary, his umbrella at his side.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. You are looking…well." Mycroft studied him with critical eyes, and John knew exactly what he meant; that he looked infinitely _better_ than the last time they had seen each other, no longer pale and thin with deep shadows under empty eyes. The doctor straightened defensively and nodded.

"Yes, ah…you too." He looked pointedly at Mycroft's extended belly, and the man merely rolled his eyes, crossing the room to perch in Sherlock's chair. John instantly went to sit in his own armchair, the tall detective simply standing in the window, staring down at the street below. It was odd, John thought, to see Sherlock so calm and without animosity toward his brother, even though he realized that Sherlock did not consider the flat to be 'home' and therefore would have no reason to be defensive; John was the unwelcome stranger here.

"I do apologize for the situation my little brother has put you in. I had hoped that he would have his memories completely returned to him before meeting you once again. I'll be sure to keep a closer eye on him from now on." Mycroft shot Sherlock's turned back a weary glare, leaning forward to stand.

"I—hold on, what do you mean 'keep an eye on him'? You're not, I mean, _he's not_ leaving is he?" John stammered, stopping the older man before he could rise out of his seat, voice lacing with desperation. Mycroft gave him a confused look.

"Yes, of course. You are a medical man, Doctor, I'm sure you realize the amount of stress your new re-arrival into his life is sure to cause, considering he remembers nothing of your time together. No, it is best for my brother to return home with me and continue his therapy with the doctor I have assigned for him."

John stood in anger at the exact moment Sherlock whipped around to glare at Mycroft, animosity clear on both faces as they lashed out at the same time:

"I am not a child, Mycroft!"

"I am perfectly well-trained to care for him myself!"

The two men paused for a beat after the outburst, turning to look at each other with wide, slack-jawed expressions, as if surprised by the other's reaction. Without breaking eye contact with John, Sherlock spoke in a hushed tone, "He said he was my friend. And…I _trust _him. He is more than qualified to take over my medical care, and Doctor Lewis is an idiot." John blanched at him, but the look was completely lost on Sherlock, who had turned his eyes to hesitantly look at his brother, looking more vulnerable than John had cared to see on the angular face. Mycroft seemed equally off-put by the look, because he sighed heavily and nodded, turning the handle of his umbrella slowly in his hand. It occurred to John in that moment just how worried for his brother Mycroft actually was; the look on his face was one he had seen many times on the families of terminal patients, the look of someone who wanted to give their loved one the world while they still had a chance. This in itself terrified John, but he refused to show it, refused to give Mycroft any reason to believe that he was not within the professional mindframe to care for his long-lost best friend.

"Right. What am I to tell people, then?" John finally said, settling back into his seat.

Mycroft mimicked the movement, leaning back against his brother's leather seatback, "Sherlock's condition is to be kept in the utmost secrecy. News of his being alive _must_ remain hidden until his memories are completely returned to him. Though I suppose if you were to tell miss…" he pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket, opening to a page, "Mary Morsten about the situation in order to avoid a _lovers tiff_, that would be acceptable." John ruffled a bit at mention of Mary. _Of course_ Mycroft knew about her, he should have known that the elder Holmes would remain keeping an eye on him on Sherlock's behalf despite the given circumstances. With a small sigh, John nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose in order to remain calm.

Mycroft stood then, crossing to where his brother had turned back to the window, placing a protective hand on his shoulder, "Shall we, then, Sherly?" He said quietly, in a tone John knew was only meant for Sherlock. The detective shook him off, eyes still on the street below.

"No, I don't think I will be returning to your home, Mycroft. I'll be moving back here, with John." He turned gray eyes to John's surprised face, offering him the barest of smirks, and John couldn't help but feel a small amount of hope flutter inside of him, the absolute truth of his best friend returned from the dead (amnesia or not) settling over him with an amount of happiness he never thought he'd ever have a right to feel again.


	9. Enigma

He was a predictable enigma.

That's what Sherlock thought of Doctor John Watson. He was kind purely for the purpose of being kind. He made Sherlock tea, and didn't expect any favour in return. He put up with all of Sherlock's oddities without any complaints. John Watson completely baffled him.

Sherlock prided himself on knowing people. He knew Mrs Hudson had a secret boyfriend, and she was hoping it was serious. He knew Mycroft was hiding something from him, possibly that he was seeing a certain Detective Inspector but he wasn't certain. He could tell things about John, but nothing he deemed important. He knew about John's alcoholic sister, and that he'd been an army doctor. Nothing else though.

He couldn't figure out why the man was so kind to him. He couldn't deduce what their relationship had been, but he felt that it surely had to be more than just flat-mates. People who were just flat-mates didn't know as much about each other as John knew about him.

He'd tried asking, but John would just laugh and tell him they were mates. Just mates. Naturally Sherlock didn't believe him. He doubted that John would break a date with his girlfriend for 'just a mate.' Even if the girlfriend wasn't good enough for him.

She was nice, and intelligent. John seemed happy when they were together. He didn't know what it was but, Sherlock just felt that John was too good for her.

The door to his memories was still unmoving. He tried daily to find a way to open it, but nothing worked.

"John? "

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Tell me more about your blog. Tell me about some of the cases. Which one was your favourite?"

"Probably the Hound of Baskerville case. Let me finish making this tea and I'll come in there."

He listened as John started talking. He closed his eyes and stared at the door in his mind. He hoped that listening to John talk about a case would help him remember.

He'd been in his mind palace for close to ten minutes when he saw it. There was a crack between two boards. A crack that he could fit his fingers in, but only just. "You don't take sugar."

John blinked at him, "What?"

"You don't take sugar in your coffee. You told me that at Henry's house."

"You remember?"

Sherlock nodded, "Sort of. I can only remember bits and pieces. Like you don't take sugar, you don't like cats, and you made me wear these garish Christmas antlers."

The last one caused John to laugh fondly. "What helped you remember?"

"You. Your talking combined with my trying to remember caused a crack in the barrier."

It became part of their daily routine. Sherlock would listen to John talk about cases, or things they'd done together, while trying to open the door.

When he actually got it open, he was alone. John was on a date with Mary, and Mrs Hudson was with whatever man she was seeing. Something he was very grateful for. He didn't want either of them to ask him questions until he had time to go through the memories.

The room that was just inside caused Sherlock to pause. It resembled a teenaged girl's room, posters of a favoured actor on the walls. Only the person the room was dedicated to wasn't famous. It was the good doctor Watson.


End file.
